The Diplomacy of Truth: A Tale of Chanceries and Stomped Feet
I was sitting behind the dark wooden desk at the Ministry, in the room that always had the distinct scent of stacked papers and cold coffee. It was just any other morning, one of those days where routine stretches out like a faraway horizon, with no surprises in sight. But, of course, there's always something that changes it – and that day, the change came in the form of a chancery officer.
She entered with a posture that could have belonged in any spy movie, all formal, her blazer perfectly aligned, and an expression that seemed to suggest she was there to resolve problems involving entire countries. But the reason for her visit wasn’t exactly what I expected. I thought we’d be discussing deep diplomatic issues, maybe a treaty or some billion-dollar agreement. None of that.
She, with a slightly tense smile, asked right off the bat: "How did our attache manage to bring his wife with him to his post abroad?" I stared at her for a moment, trying to keep my composure, but the answer was already slipping out of my mouth before I could process it.
"Well, he basically did what everyone does in this situation: sought out some good patronage, because let’s be honest, this is illegal," I said, with the kind of bluntness that comes from being tired of formalities and bureaucracy. She looked at me, probably expecting some kind of evasive answer, but the truth was my only ally at that point.
That’s when my department head, who was sitting nearby and just happened to be friends with the attache, decided to make a quiet, strategic move. She gave me a very subtle, under-the-table nudge. "Don’t say that!" her heel seemed to whisper. Now, I’m not the type to stay quiet when a foot is pressed against mine – especially when I know it’s to cover up something that should be more transparent.
"Why did you step on my foot?" I asked, aloud, with no filter whatsoever. The room went completely still, as if even the air had paused to listen to what just happened.
The department head, with an expression of someone who no longer knew where to look, blushed deeply. She knew I wouldn’t have said that if it hadn’t been for her subtle "shush". She tried to justify it, nervously whispering that what I’d said wasn’t "correct". I, with the patience of someone who had grown tired of the Ministry’s tricks, responded without hesitation, "Correct? Well, if it were correct, you wouldn’t be trying to hide it from everyone, would you?"
And that's when she was left completely speechless. The chancery officer, who had up until then seemed mainly concerned with how her friend’s husband managed to bring his wife along, was now absolutely horrified by the situation. After all, who would expect such a simple process of transferring a spouse to be wrapped up in so much confusion? She looked at me with wide eyes, probably trying to figure out what was going on or perhaps wondering if it had been a mistake to bring up such a thorny topic.
In the end, all that lingered in the air was the smell of forgotten coffee and the feeling that diplomacy, in fact, had been right there before us, not in the hands of great ambassadors, but in the feet of those who, secretly, were trying to silence the truth.
It was a small moment of pure bureaucratic comedy. And, as much as the power games and maneuvers in public service were always more interesting than any spy film, I still couldn’t help but smile. After all, that morning, diplomacy took on a new meaning: the art of, when possible, stepping on the lie with a bit of good humor.